December 2, 2025
Tuesday
. . . the snow doesn’t give a soft white
damn Whom it touches
— E.E. Cummings, 1894-1962, American poet
I considered titling this piece “A Snowy Day,” but went instead with the more blunt but possibly off-putting line from Edward Estlin Cummings, poet, painter, essayist, playwright, novelist, a man of courage, a man of faith — you get the idea. And let’s clear this up right now: he did not render his name all lower case. Although he was known for his quirky typography and his linguistic tricks (notice the capitalized “Whom” above), he never called himself “e.e. cummings.” (It pains me to type it.) That was a graphic decision by a publisher that somehow entered the public imagination. It’s wrong. Trust me on this.
Anyway (a transition that indicates I am relaxing into the joy of writing publicly again), it was a snowy day here in central Pennsylvania. (I’d post a picture but I have forgotten how to do that and I need to work on recovering that skill.) We were warned about this. We were ready. My favorite Weight Watchers (WW, Wellness Workshop, whatever they’re calling themselves right now) in-person gathering had already x-ed itself out before I went to bed last night. I also rescheduled an afternoon in-person session with my psychologist. I had the right ingredients in the house for the traditional (almost obligatory) central Pennsylvania snow day: toilet paper, eggs, sandwich bread, butter, pancake syrup, Swift brown ‘n’ serve sausages (for the required French toast), coffee, and cream. My area of Dauphin County (the east shore of the river, the south side of the Blue Mountain Ridge) got about 2.5 or 3 inches of heavy, wet snow. My snow removal service had some equipment snafus. No problem. I can wait.
And while I wait, let me give you a brief introduction, both for those who know or remember me, and for those who do not.
I am Margaret DeAngelis, although I go by other names, notably Marm (my daughter and son-in-law), Maimeo (my grandsons), Margy (a hard g), Marg (another hard g), Maggy (with a y on the end, not an ie), Mrs. DeAngelis (some very formal circumstances). Do NOT call me “Marge.” Ever.
I am 78 years old, although I think of myself and strive to project the intellectual mindset I had when I was 45 (1992, an annus mirabilis). I taught secondary school English and composition for almost 30 years. I left the classroom in 1998 and now describe myself as a writer and literary citizen. I entered the blogosphere in 1999 (before sites like this had that name). I write personal essays, fiction, and narrative nonfiction. I have a modest body of published work, as well as a ready supply of “truncated unfinishments,” fragments that may or may not ever benefit from further development.
In 1983, when I was 36, I married Ron DeAngelis, then 46. He died on August 19, 2025, twelve days after our forty-second wedding anniversary. I miss him, a lot, and I struggle with the necessary process of grief and the equally necessary process of forward motion, remaking myself as new creation. I will not be known as a widow. I will be known as a writer, reader, grandmother, friend, a seeker of truth, a follower of The Christ, a woman of courage, a woman of peace.
My driveway is clear now. I had the last of my favorite leftover turkey sandwiches (with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce as the moist-makers) for dinner. I’ll save the French toast for tomorrow. Tomorrow I go back to tying up the loose ends of my obligations as an estate administrator, navigating some mobility challenges that make moving through the day problematic, observing and striving to rise above the hellscape that is our current national nightmare (that should give you a clue as to which end of the political spectrum I inhabit), reading Holidailies, and enjoying this life so full of possibilities, so full of the means to achieve them.
See you tomorrow.